


in the family of things

by WhimperSoldier



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Daman is a demigod who wants to help, Laurent Has A Crush, Multi, god AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-02-08 22:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12874665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimperSoldier/pseuds/WhimperSoldier
Summary: "I need something substantially more important, something physical that can not be given to another. Can you think of something like this?”Laurent went quiet for a few moments before mumbling something, too low for even his own ears. A single raised brow drew the small prince’s eyes upwards to meet the warm gaze of the god.“A kiss?” Laurent asked, the word slipping from between his lips like a sigh.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I should be writing papers and finishing projects and studying for finals but guess what I'm doing instead? If you guessed writing more of this AU you are a very good guesser.
> 
> Title comes from the beautiful poem "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver.

Laurent as a child had always found the main chapel to be much too imposing to to ever feel truly at home. It was a towering monument to the gods, with spires the color of burnished gold and statues bursting from stone, as if at any moment they might wave to their followers below. Inside the walls were covered in art, crawling up the ceiling and revealing the history of the gods in beautiful detail. When he was but six summer old, his mother had walked him through the chapel, showing off the paintings and stories that went with them. Even now, Laurent could still hear his mother’s voice as he walked down the long halls, wide and with light streaming in, casting warm evening sun across perfectly still faces. 

To the west sat a mosaic of the birth of Jokaste, the goddess of marriage and livelihood, under her sat scrolls tucked into small cubbies, filled with the less tasteful things the goddess of lust was known for. Her hair was a swirling mass of yellow, curling around her outstretched arm. Sprawling across the far off wall in the east wing of the temple was the god of revenge, Kastor, a hulking beast of muscle and hate whom Laurent disliked the most as he passed the god’s curled face. Clytemnestra, goddess of childbirth, was on the ceiling, surrounded by small cherubs with little bows. Her soft eyes almost seemed to follow him as he walked into the grand temple at the end of the hall. He ignored the god of wisdom and leadership with his crown of leaves, moving instead deeper into the hall and leaving the elder god behind in favor of his son, a small affair tucked away behind large columns.

To Laurent, even the High Goddess Ios, depicted with her heavenly white hair and skin as dark as night could never be more beautiful that the demigod who sat painted before him.

Damianos, born half-human from a beautiful Isthima princess, looked out at Laurent with warm eyes and a bright smile, the details so precise Laurent could see the small indent in the curve of his cheek. His arm was outstretched, as if his fingers might curl around one's jaw or gently brush back a lock of hair. Below him was a small bench placed for reflection and confession. The demigod’s leg was draped casually over the carved inlaid details of the bench backing. Laurent could see where the new layer of paint had been added in the form of a draped cloth across his hips, giving the god modesty where the original painter had left him nude. The prince shook himself, now was no time to think on such things.

Laurent moved forward, tying his hair back into a low braid and lifting the small bag from his waist. From it he pulled candles, matches, and a beautiful knife. He could feel his breath catch as the light glinted off the blade. Arranging the lit candles, he looked up and met the eyes of the god before him.

“My brother leaves for war soon,” Laurent started, his fingers holding tight to the hilt of the blade in one hand, the other gripping the flowing silk of his hair. “They say when your father made you immortal, he granted you the ability to help mortals in their time of need.”

Laurent looked down. He took a deep breath. He raised his eyes again.

“My brother is the strongest person in all of Vere, no one will bring him low, but please, if you ever show favor to mortals, please do so now.” Laurent could feel tears prickling in his eyes. The stable boy said boys of twelve summers never cried but Auguste said crying showed one what is most important and Laurent thought his brother was much smarter than some stupid stable boy. He told as much to Damianos. The painting just continued to smile at him, not the cruel twist lipped smile he got from his uncle, but a sweet wide lipped grin Laurent could remember from his mother.

“I know you might want something in return,” Laurent said quickly once he realized he had sat in silence for many minutes. “I know all of your myths and tales. You were very brave to slay that invincible lion. I also really liked the one with the horses you saved from those giants!” Laurent calmed himself and tried again. “What I meant to say was that I know of your preference for blonde hair. Mother told me my beauty could one day rival Jokaste’s but to never say such a thing!”

Laurent stopped and rethought what he had just said.

“I know you loved her, but please don’t tell her I said that,” Laurent pleaded. “My offering is my hair. I wanted to grow it out to look just like my brother, but I think you could use it better, like in the tale of the snake wrestling where you tired it up with a braided rope!”

He moved to cut, his small hands shaking to the point he feared he might nick himself. The hair gave with little resistance, falling to the floor with an almost silent thump. The uneven strands fluttered around his neck, tickling the delicate skin at his nape. Slowly, Laurent untied the ribbon and the tightly packed hair fluttered down into a golden pile.

Silently, the boy fed them to the flames, watching them crumple and fold inwards before fluttering into ash. The room smelt thick and the scent lodged itself into the back of his throat, but the old scroll in the library had been very clear, all parts of the gift had to be given to the flames in return the gods would grant the boon asked of them.

Laurent hoped the god of strategy, just warfare, and fertility was feeling favorable to boys who wished for their brother to be safe. He bowed his head and prayed, harder and harder until his head hurt and his fingers were bone white from where he had pressed them into his crossed legs.

“Calm yourself, little one,”

Laurent screamed, scuttling backwards and causing the knife to go skidding across the floor. The man, Damianos in all of his glory, reached forward from his lounge on his bench to hold Laurent still.

His breath became too quick, a harsh rattle in his lungs, staring into the deep brown eyes of a demigod. The man, god, did as his portrait implied, running fingers slowly through Laurent’s recently short hair, soothing him like one might a horse.

“Hush, little one, all is well,” He cooed, brushing a calloused thumb across the plump arch of Laurent’s cheek which flooded pink. The man laughed. “There, little star, see? Nothing to fear.”

“You came?” Laurent whispered, his voice so quiet it caused Damianos’ brows to wrinkle together. “You came to help me?”

“Well, with such a thoughtful gift, how could anyone refuse?” Damianos laughed, his voice a deep timbre that sent shivers down Laurent’s spine though he didn’t know why. The god suddenly got serious, the little lines around his eyes lessening. “Unfortunately, I need something substantially more important, something physical that can not be given to another. Can you think of something like this?”

Laurent went quiet for a few moments before mumbling something, too low for even his own ears. A single raised brow drew the small prince’s eyes upwards to meet the warm gaze of the god.

“A kiss?” He said, the word slipping from between his lips like a sigh.

The demigod threw his head back and laughed, startling the boy into tilting his face down to the floor, his newly shorn hair tumbling forward to hide his blush. Damianos’ chuckles died off, fading into deep belly laughs that tied Laurent’s stomach into knots. 

“Ok, little star,” He said, turning Laurent’s face to the side and tapping the high cut of his cheek. Laurent’s breath caught in his throat before coming out in a great whoosh.

Gooseflesh rippled down Laurent’s arm, his whole body feeling overly warm and far too much out of his control. Everything came to a standstill, the weak light pouring in from the sky light became frozen, even the flickering flames of the candles seemed to become silent as warm lips pressed against thin skin and Laurent’s eyes fluttered close.

The lips pulled away and Laurent leaned forward, his eyes snapping open to find himself alone, moonlight flooding the alcove. Shadows played across the gently smoking candles, their trails arching upwards, as if something had leaned over and with a bow-lipped delicacy, silently blown them out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long time coming but here it is!

Damianos’ face remained eternally sunny, looking forever outwards with his delicate ringlets falling perfectly across a cut jaw and framing full lips tilted up in a beautiful smile.

Laurent glared at him, watching with quick eyes for any movement from a blink to a twitch. His twelve summers old body practically vibrated with pent-up energy but he pressed it down, wringing his hands in his lap and waited, ignoring the thoughts that bounced around his skull.

Auguste should have arrived at the front by now, should have sent home letters to inform Laurent about the silly songs they sang and the ridiculous actions his incompetent squire had done lately. He contented himself with the knowledge that any news of trouble would have already been gossip among the smallfolk, and thus, he would know too.

“You promised,” He whispered, glaring at the painted face. “Remember, you promised.”

~ ~ ~

“Laurent, please come out!” His mother called, her thin face folded in on itself in worry. The dress she wore was too big, the fabric slipping down her thin shoulders as she called for her son. “He is fine, darling! Your father assures me night raids happen often in war! Your brother was far from the battle!”

She continued on, moving from the temple to the gardens, her voice echoing down the halls. Laurent’s head popped up, his golden hair hidden behind the delicate fabric that worked as a divider for Damianos’ door.

“I know you miss your uncle, but please darling, trust me, it was for the best! Your brother agreed with me! Would you not want to reread his most recent letter to you?” Her voice faded as she moved down the steps.

“Mother says I imagined you,” He whispered, conscious of how close she had come to finding him. “But I know the truth. Remember.”

~ ~ ~

“He should be home soon,” His father said, moving to cut into his food. Laurent was quiet, slowly stirring his soup. It was the only thing he could keep down.

“He said in his last letter he would be back for my birthday,” Laurent muttered. “He said he would bring many gifts, to make up for the ones he missed.”

“Silence, Laurent,” His father hissed, watching his wife retreat within herself. 

“He promised but he lied!” Lauren cried, his mouth quivering. “Why can’t he come home, father you are king tell him to come home!”

“You are no longer a child, Laurent, it is high time you act like it!” The king hissed, his knife slipping and scrapping loudly across the porcelain plate. Laurent shot out of his chair and out the door, ignoring his father and mother calling after him.

He was angry, blood-boiling, hair-pulling, scream-wrenchingly angry yet tears rolled down his still soft cheeks. His small chest heaved with cries. His vision blurred and every breath seemed to burn his lungs.

He ran until the trees blurred and his palms were split from falling onto the gravel path. It was only when he reached the bench did he allow himself to fall and not get back up.

Strong arms wrapped around his thin shoulders and tucked him against a warm, board chest.

Laurent’s cries became harder, his perfectly styled hair was a mess, so unlike his brother, and that thought along made the young prince pound his fists into Damianos’ stomach. The world was tilting and he slid down to the floor, the god slowly lowering him.

A soft kiss was pressed on the crown of his head and Laurent knew nothing else.

~ ~ ~

A report came back from the front, claiming the gods had decided their allegiances and that the lines in the sand were becoming wet with blood from both sides.

The messenger said the goddess Jokaste favored Vask, pulling a lovely soldier from the fighting and whisking him away to safely.

“Your brother and his squire stopped that,” a soldier whispered to him when he was helping Pascal bandage the wounded. The boy’s shoulder was a mess of bone and flesh delivered by the tip of an enemy spear. When Laurent listened intently, looking for any news not heavily edited by Auguste, the soldier perked up. “She tried to steal many men from their death at your brother’s sword but he threw his weapon like a spear! It lanced her hand, she dropped the poor man hundreds of feet. Her protection cost him his life!”

The soldier found this quite funny, laughing so hard Pascal had to rub a paste along his gums until his body slumped against the thin straw mattress like a marionette with its strings severed.

~~~

The letter was an anomaly in an otherwise predictable system. It had been tucked in with his brother’s regular correspondents, added hastily with twine. A small blue flower was pressed into the pages, the color melting into the paper sometime during the long ride back to Arles.

The hasty note was courtesy of Auguste’s new squire, a brute well regarded for his protection of Laurent’s brother. He talked at length about his brother’s health, and how he was running himself ragged with the newest batch of recruits. It was an honest and sweet letter, done to put his mind at ease.

So Laurent sent a scalding response back detailing the punishments for misusing the mail system for personal gain.

~~~

The next to call sides was Nikandros, god of good counsel and brotherhood. He gifted Auguste with a sword that the soldier’s said was crafted by the hands of the gods themselves. 

Laurent wished so much to see it, Auguste’s squire’s abysmal drawings doing nothing to capture the apparent magnificence of the weapon. He said as much, growing concerned at the boy’s mental facilities considering his response to Laurent’s barbs was laughter and a sort of warm familial affection.

The boy was also very sweet for a soldier. Days before his birthday, along with his brother’s letter, was a small carving of a lion, the symbol of Damianos, done in a skilled hand. The squire wrote no note, choosing instead only to wrap around the wood a scrap of paper with his name on it in looping scratch.

The feeling of a painful heat in his chest Laurent contributed to the three finger-lengths he had grown in the last few month.

~~~

His hair was a tangled mess, the curls that had looked so beautiful at the Party now hung limp and matted along his doublet. The pretty brush was making little headway.

The room grew cold and the slowly dripping yards of cotton cloth over his chair froze. His fingers were quick to drop the brush in favor of the bejeweled knife tucked into the back of a jewelry box, a childhood gift from his brother.

He spun around to meet his assailant only to let the blade drop to the ground in shock and fear.

Jokaste stood resplendent in pink silk, the fabrics bunching around and accentuating her hips, the same color as her painted lips. Even the delicate curl of her hair was perfect, a tight braid that encircled her head in a mock-crown. 

Laurent wished to run. The stories were never kind to men who dabbled in the affairs of gods.

“It’s strange he cares so much for a mortal,” she hissed, looking at him as if she was assessing cattle and speaking as if he was not even in the room. “Pretty, perhaps, but what is a man to the beauty of the gods?”

“Goddess-“ Laurent tried only to be cut off with a click of her tongue. She waved her hand and his clothing, which had been ruined with sudden rain during his birthday celebration, was cleaned and turned a vivid and shocking blue.

“Maybe you will be more clever than your idiot of a lover,” she huffed, looking over her shoulder as if she was worried about being followed. Laurent wondered, in the part of his mind not stilled with fear, what could be so horrid as to frighten an all powerful being? 

“There will come a time Laurent of Vere when he needs you, not your silly priests or outlandish sacrifices, but the mind resting behind your skull.”

“I am but a second son, exhaled-“

“Do not mock me boy!” She growled, her voice deepening to a rumble and her eyes flashing a hellish white. “You all may forget under the guise of love and lust, but I am also the goddess of vengeful retribution and treason. My part to play is written, yours is not. When the time come, and come it will, you must be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” He asked, his anger flaring up. “If a goddess can not stop whatever you fear followed you here than how can I? You called me a mortal and that I am! I will not die for the whims of the gods.”

She stilled, the metal snake curling around her arm loosening and curling about the inside of her wrist.

“They are going to kill Damianos before he can ascend to his father's throne.” She whispered. The words struck Laurent hard, in the soft place behind his heart reserved for his brother’s laugh, his mother’s steady voice, and his childhood love for the demigod. He turned to look at the goddess.

“What must I do?”

~~~  
“Six and ten summers is a perfectly acceptable time to take a consort-”

“He is too young!” His mother cried, her fingers frustratingly flipping through the book’s pages without seeing them. “Eight and ten is much more acceptable.”

“As much as I appreciate your matchmaking, I seem to remember being promised to a demigod, so your points are moot,” Laurent said, knowing bringing up his childhood crush would lessen the tension in the room. “You see, any suitor could never withstand the beauty, poise, and power of such a creature.”

“Laurent…” His father sighed, the tightness around his eyes lessening in humor. The wrinkles around his smile deepened when he let out a little laugh.

“If I really must, perhaps somewhere near Ravenel? I hear the hunting is divine.” Laurent hinted. His father scowled.

“Much too close to Lys. Choose somewhere farther from the battles. Your mother is going to your aunt’s villa in Belloy, might that be a nice place to find someone… special?”

Laurent hid his frown, instead shaking his head and looking out the window to silence the issue.

~ ~ ~

Lazar was an interesting man with many stories, his favorite of which was the night spent under the stars with the demigod Pallas, son of the god of athletics. The rogue said he lived up to his name and reputation but Laurent brushed that off as his love struck crush.

Laurent’s parents had long since brushed off any mention of his demigod, calling it a childish flight of fancy. His mother seemed to think of it as a way to overcome the grief left by his brother, his father thought it an elaborate hoax to avoid taking a pet.

Laurent could care less about their opinions, instead choosing to take over the tasks unusually given to the priests. Small candles and incense stubs were easy to clean for such a small space and the feeling of warm eyes on his back while he did so was worth the wax burns on his fingertips.

~~~

The squire was his only line of truth, the only one who thought to tell their Golden Prince’s younger brother that his most beloved sibling lived to fight another day. 

It was strange to think back on the times he spent wondering of Auguste’s fate now that he had more information than was probably safe to be traveling even when not behind enemy lines.

It was Laurent who developed the code, a slow but complex system that was only decipherable with the correct text.

If said text happen to be a book on the myths of Damianos, well it was a relevant text that Laurent thought would be easily found even at the front lines.

~~~

“You understand this is a strange request?” The courtier asked, his fat fingers twirling in Laurent’s unbound hair. The prince smiled, his teeth blinding even in the low light of the balcony.

“Please, my lord, humor me,” He laughed, ignoring the hand that crept up from the pillar to press against the small of his back. A slight twist and he was free, laughing like a sprite as he danced down the garden path. “When might I expect them? My brother is deathly fond of such flowers, I know it seems silly, think not of the impropriety!”

“I thought no such thing!” The courtier laughed, his chins shaking. Laurent thought he had a jolly look in his eye and the same hunger many older men had, to hold, if only for a second, a youth as bright as they themselves in their prime. “I simply thought perhaps it was for your shrine!”

“My what?” Laurent laughed, the note hanging false in the crisp air.

“Why, my prince, you are the talk of the kingdom with your sudden devotion to the gods.”

_God_ , thought Laurent. _Singular._

“I do my part,” Laurent sighed, brushing the leaves from his hair and turning the scowl crawling its way up his face into a dainty huff. “Is it a crime to care about the well-being of soldiers protecting me and mine?”

“Gladiolus are symbolic, you know,” He smiled, his face sweetening with joy. “Most send it to convey remembrance but it is often sent among lovers, meaning strength of character, faithfulness, and honor.”

“You are well versed in the language, my lord.” Laurent smiled back, his lips pulling a bit too far, turning his smile into a grimace.

“My land is the most fertile, thus produces the most crops, including flowers,” Here his eyes turned keen. “But you knew that, did you not, my prince?”

Laurent stayed silent, hoping the conversation would be dropped.

“You plyed me with wine and complemented this truly horrid colored robe in hopes that I would send a frankly ridiculous number of flowers to the front lines.” While Laurent paled, the courtier seemed even more merry, as if unraveling his plot brought him nothing but joy. “Do you know what the flower’s other name is, my prince?”

The air became full with the weight of silence.

“A sword lily,” Laurent whispered, his mind flying through the possible outcomes and actions he could take within the next few minutes to advert a crisis. His mouth moved without his volition. “It is a sacred flower to Damianos.”

“Said to bring him luck in battle,” His quiet laugh still echoed through the garden. “So now I must ask, why might the god of just war need help in battle?”

Laurent felt his mind click into place, as if all the threads in a tapestries were suddenly pulled tight so that the weaver might finally see the picture. He moved forward, startling the man into a raised eyebrow and a hasty step backwards.

“This war is more than a ban on pastries or a struggle for sugar, the battles fought today will play into everything that comes after. Your role, our role, it small but important. So I ask again, my lord-” Laurent met his eye, twistedly proud of the beads of sweat sliding down his hairline. “When might I expect them?”

~~~

“Uncle is to come visit within the month,” Laurent said during dinner. The comfortable scratch of metal utensils on glassware stopped as his mother halted her spoon inches from her mouth. “I thought perhaps it be best if I join a few men visiting the neighboring towns during said visit.”

“A wonderful idea, a few men will make for a nice trip! Maybe we might write to your brother and ask about setting you up with your own province or such-”

“Take Jord.” His father said abruptly, ignoring the look his mother was sending him. “For safety. Please.”

“Of course father,” Laurent said, sipping delicately at the broth. “For safety.”

~~~

“I can not condone this, my prince!” Jord cried out, calling to Laurent who was urging his horse faster. It had been a long while since he had been allowed free reign to ride, not since a spy had been found attempting to cross the mountains into Varenne. “We must turn back!”

“Jord, do you know why I picked you to to lead this expedition of rabble rousers and misfits?” Laurent called, his spirits lifted by the wind whipping through his unbound hair. When his Captain of the Guard only looked on in confusion and exasperation, Laurent let the feeling of childlike mirth bubble up his chest and out of his mouth. “Because we are needed, and I needed good men.”

“Good men, your grace?” Jord asked, looking back on a soldier who was attempting to lace his boot up while remaining in marching order.

“Or at least the men that will not betray me to Vaskian guerrillas or run back to my father when they understand what I am asking of them,” Laurent smiled, thinking of his brother, seeing the camps, even that silly squire of Auguste’s, he wanted to be a part of it all. And if the gods had any say, he would be.

“If I may ask, what exactly are you asking of them?” Jord looked concerned and more than a little wary. Laurent only raised a single eyebrow before sending his horse into a gallop, shooting ahead of both guards and scouts, much to the chagrin of his captain. Jord sighed. “Gods help us.”

~~~

Even from a distance, his brother looked smaller than he remembered.

The Auguste of his memory was as large as life, voice so loud it could echo down hallways and a personality so dynamic it drew crowds, but the man before him looked beaten down and tired. He looked old.

Laurent realized it was simply his perception, the long trip back didn’t help matters, and the mess of dirt and mud splattered across his face and clothes made the lines at his eyes more pronounced. Even with this, Laurent felt his heart beat out of his chest. His brother was safe and unharmed just as Damianos had promised.

To his brother’s side was a man, his squire, Damen. He was different from how he sounded in the letters. Laurent had expected the reedy second son of some far off noble, maybe hoping to curry favor with the soon to be king, instead Laurent found a man full grown, arms like trees and a stature just as strong. Auguste was taller, but only by a scant few inches. Both men were underweight, Laurent could see that from the tight pull of skin across both their cheeks, but it was nothing a few weeks of rest and good meals wouldn’t fix.

He moved at a sedated pace through the crowd, quietly inquiring about the nature of soldiers wounds, their plans for after their recovery, the people they had left behind. All of the men watched his with wide eyes, the clean-cut doublet which Laurent had painstakingly roped himself into this morning now seemed silly in the face of their mud stained trousers and shirts with frayed hems. A man, older, with gray at his temples and dust caking the lines in his palms, raised a single shaking finger to brush the soft embroidered silk of Laurent’s undershirt.

It was only Laurent’s years of experience that stopped him from smacking the offending hand away and instead watched as the man smiled, his teeth a blinding white. It took years off his face, rounding his sharp chin and deep sunken eyes into a look of boyish mirth.

“Pretty,” He said, meeting Laurent’s eye only briefly before looking around for the women bringing out bowls of porridge and bread.

“Perhaps I should have one made for you,” Laurent said, his heart warming at the quirky upturn of the man’s lips. As if brought back to reality, Laurent moved away, making a break for the bright blue starburst flags waving proudly above his brother’s tent.

Auguste’s squire answered, his hair unbound and spilling down his neck in loose, wet spirals. Laurent felt himself freeze, unprepared for any sort of conversation with the man he had only talked to in letters.

“Your brother is bathing,” Damen started, carefully, laying his hand in front of Laurent’s chest so he could not move farther. As the glare directed his way, Damen only raised an eyebrow. “He is not alone.”

“What do you mean?” Laurent asked, suddenly angry. “I have not seen my brother in years and now you wish to tell me the only thing standing in my way is a few of his generals? Move.”

“Your brother missed you, your grace, but that is not the type of company he now keeps,” Damen said quietly, his words poient and pointed. He politely ignored the blush that erupted on Laurent’s face and crept down his neck. “Walk with me instead?”

Their walk was a leisurely stroll through the tents, the loud flapping of banners and canvas drowning out the pounding of Laurent’s heart. He moved lightly across the ground, taking care not to crush the small daisies that were scattered between blades of grass. Few plants flowered this early in the spring but Laurent couldn't help but love the crisp freshness of the air. Damen knew this because Laurent had told him in their letters. Apparently he also remembered Laurent hated the smell of stagnant pond water because with a guiding arm tucked into the curve of Laurent’s elbow, he moved them down a worn path and into a small valley.

Damen was from Ithima, he knew all of the stories about the gods because many of them took place on the island where he was raised. Laurent felt the weight on his shoulders become heavier and heavier as they made their way to a small grove, the vines a rich green even in spring. The light filtered through the leaves and Laurent was reminded of the way the windows in Damianos’ temple would thrown kaleidoscopes across his pages as he read, tucked up and hidden next to the strong curve of Damianos’ stone arm.

Damen remembered this too.

“Would you like to read to me, or I to you?” He asked, pulling a small bound collection of myths from the small pack at his hip. Laurent thought back to the chicken scratch of Damen’s handwriting across water-stained paper, detailing misquotations and translation errors in the stories Laurent sent to him.

“I feel quite tired, might you read something gruesome so that I might wake up?” Laurent asked, delicately folding his hands in his lap and ignoring the wave of fatigue settling into his bones. How had his mother done this? He still had many more responsibilities to accomplish but all he wished to do was listen to Damen’s lilting voice as he drifted off to sleep.

“Nonsense, I shall read something sweet.” Damen said. He opened the book and ignored the soft pressure of Laurent’s head on his shoulder. Laurent let Damen’s voice wash over him, deeper than he had assumed from their communications, but no less lovely.

_A nap,_ thought Laurent, _I will feel much less confused after a nap._


End file.
